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Rating:
Mature

Archive Warning:
No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:
M/M
Fandom:
Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling

Relationship:
Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter

Characters:
Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy, Original Characters,
Ginny Weasley, Pansy Parkinson
Additional Tags:
Enemies to Friends with Benefits to Lovers, Slow
Burn, Getting Together, Healer Draco Malfoy,
Wandmaker Harry Potter, Recluse Harry Potter,
Mountain Man Harry Potter, Magical Theory (Harry
Potter), Wandmaking (Harry Potter), Magical
Town/Original Setting, Alaska, Folk Medicine,
Northern Lights, magical wolves, Make it all magic,
Friendship, Pining, Cooking, Animagus, Denial of
Feelings, Draco has gifted kid trauma, Self-Worth
Issues, Anxiety, Mild Sexual Content, Hand Jobs,
Blow Jobs, Frottage, Shower Sex, Teasing, Music,
Dreams and Nightmares, Bars and Pubs, Draco
Malfoy & Pansy Parkinson Friendship, Draco Malfoy &
Ginny Weasley Friendship, Background Femslash,
Banter, Brief Descriptions of Gore/Injury, Blood and
Injury, but everyone's FINE and they will be noted
ahead of the chapter, Drinking, 101 practical uses
for shield charms, Harry eats like a toddler, These
boys are so soft I can't help it, Soft and a little
broken just as the fic gods intended, Happy Ending,
Anal Sex, Patronus Charm (Harry Potter),
Nightmares, Sectumsempra Scars (Harry Potter),
Harry/Draco Big Bang 2021, Minor Pansy
Parkinson/Ginny Weasley, Art, Digital Art,
Animated GIFs
Language:
English
Collections:
Harry/Draco Big Bang 2021
Stats:
Published: 2021-09-22 Completed: 2021-09-22
Words: 73,981 Chapters: 13/13 Comments:
247 Kudos: 1,030 Bookmarks: 387 Hits:
29,758

Among Ancient
Pines
cambiodipolvere,
only_the_heart_knows,
Theartfulldodger
Summary:
Every day, Draco Malfoy tries. With
every fiber of his being he tries. But
he doesn’t much think about what
he’s trying for.

In his final term of Healer training,

Draco is unfortunate enough to find
himself on a plane, the only means
of traveling to a small, magical town
in rural Alaska. Years of hard work
have culminated in an opportunity to
work with an experimental
wandmaker to study the intersection
of Healing and wand theory. When
Draco arrives, he doesn't find the
wandmaker, but does find his
apprentice, who happens to have
ridiculously messy hair, a lightning
bolt scar, and a definitely-not-
charming smile. But Draco isn’t
going to let Harry Potter get in the
way of him becoming a successful
medical researcher, even if Potter is
stubborn, hot-tempered, reckless,
surprisingly gentle, has bizarre taste
in music, and likes to leave his shirts
unbuttoned. How hard could the
next few months be?

A fic about challenging assumptions,

discovering self-worth, the silver
lining in failing to meet
expectations, and finding friendship,
love, and purpose in a small Alaskan
town that’s steeped in magic.

Notes:
Author's Notes: It feels quite
strange to finally be writing this
note, nine months after starting this
fic, and I think it will feel even
stranger to not pull out the laptop to
work on it every evening. I’ve
poured my heart into these boys
and found such joy in imagining this
town, creating these original
characters, and always asking
myself, ‘If I had magic, how might
this change?’ I hope you find as
much magic in your trip to Volchii as
Draco does.

This fic, without a doubt, would not

be in the state it’s in without some
truly brilliant, kind, and patient
people. Gem, you live up to your
name, my friend. You’ve been with
me on this journey for months and
months, and I could not be more
grateful for your suggestions, your
incoherent screaming in the
comments, and your friendship.
Thank you for your patience with me
over the months, your brainstorming
sessions, your impromptu alpha
skills, your masterful betaing, and
your support. It means the world.

sweet_s0rr0w, you are an absolute

angel. A star. A guiding light. And,
most importantly, a lovely friend. I
cannot thank you enough for your
help with this fic and for being so
supportive these last couple months.
Whether it was wrangling in my
Americanisms, your thoughtful
suggestions, or squealing in the
comments, I’ve appreciated every
single bit of it. Thank you thank you
thank you. Darling, you’re simply
the best.

And Uphorie, for all of the help you

were able to provide and your
willingness to hop in at the end of
this project, I am so so grateful. It’s
been an honor to work with you
across multiple pieces and
sometimes it still blows my mind
that you keep coming back for
more. Your beta work is always
spot-on, and I’m thrilled to keep
working with you for as long as
you’ll have me.

To my fab artists, cambiodipolvere

and onlytheheartknows, you two are
such talented human beings. I am
blown away by your talent, your
kindness, and your enthusiasm for
something that I’ve written. It’s
such a privilege to have gotten to
work with you both throughout this
process, and I’m so thankful for the
opportunity the BB has afforded us
to connect and work together. Thank
you for bringing my fic to life
through your art. It’s one of the
greatest gifts I could ask for.

And of course, to the mods, without

whom this piece wouldn’t likely
exist. Thank you for all of the time,
energy, effort, and coordination
you’ve put forth to make this fest
happen. When I signed up for this
fest, I hadn’t written anything near
this length in over a decade. Thank
you for the opportunity to flex those
long-fic muscles again and for
cheerleading us all through this
process. It’s truly been a joy.
Absolute angels, the both of you.

Notes from onlytheheartknows: I'm

really grateful that I could create
some art for this fic. It's the first
time drawing my favourite ship and
only my second time entering this
kind of collaboration-fan-fest-thing,
so I'm still quite new to all this. I
want to give a huge thank you to
the mods for organising this lovely
Big Bang! And also a even bigger
thank you to Theartfulldodger for
letting me bring some of her writing
to life and to cambiodipolvere for
the advice and great company. You
two made this such a exciting
experience and it was so much fun!
I hope the readers will enjoy this
story as much as I did.

Notes from cambiodipolvere: It’s

moving, as the distance across the
Atlantic and American content; the
distance between a strange enemy
and a close friend. I only hope these
pieces can do justice to the fic. Sara
and Tess are both so incredible, I’m
glad to have had the opportunity to
work with them.

(See the end of the work for other

works inspired by this one.)

Chapter 1
Notes:
The absolutely fabulous art in this
chapter is courtesy of the wonderful
and talented cambiodipolvere.

An obnoxious rattle of metal on metal competes with

the stuttering roar of the engine, anchoring into the
marrow of Draco’s bones like the incessant hum of a
ghost beneath the floorboards. How he willed himself
onto this flying coffin, he’ll never truly understand.
Whatever his state of mind while climbing aboard, it
quickly evolved into a wild panic, which amplified
exponentially with each successive meter put
between Draco’s feet and the ground.

If he were to pry his eyes open, turn to the window at

his right, and wipe the fog from the glass, Draco
would see the expanse of snow-covered treetops
whose bristly limbs stretch skyward to nearly graze
the bottom of the plane. He would stare, mouth
agape, at the deep lavender clouds highlighted in
gold by the last hint of the sinking sun. He would feel
a bit insignificant under the long shadows of the
alpenglow-soaked mountains in the distance.

Instead, Draco clamps his eyes shut, wrings his

hands in his lap, and focuses on the conscious effort
required to fill his lungs with the bitter cold air. He
sees nothing but the teasing hint of light visible from
the inside of his eyelids.

Draco ponders how to best pay vengeance to his

mentor for her role in this nonsense. Unfortunately,
his scheming is interrupted by his stomach lodging in
his throat as the tiny plane begins its intentional
plummet to earth.

“Don’t lose your lunch. We’re almost there,” the

raspy, tobacco-tortured voice crackles through the
contraption over Draco’s ears. He nods, eyes still
sealed shut, and ignores the sound of an exasperated
sigh.

Draco’s journey began an uncertain number of hours

prior, in Heathrow’s International Portkey Office.
Before leaving, he was confident the transatlantic
travel would be the worst part of his journey,
requiring two long-distance Portkeys to get to
Juneau. However, the resulting nausea and painful
distortion were no competition for his first experience
on a Muggle plane.

Unfortunately, Draco could not drive, nor could he

Apparate to a location he’d never been without risking
the loss of life or limb. So, he was left to allow a
“pilot” to fly him to Seldovia in what has come to be
one of the worst experiences of his life.

Quite an impressive title, considering… he thinks as

he dismounts on shaky legs from the horrid machine.

With feet firmly on the ground, Draco runs a futile

hand through his mussed hair. In lieu of the talking
earmuffs required on the plane, he places his knit hat
low to shield his ears from the chill. It turns out, the
Seldovia Airport is not much of an airport at all, at
least compared to the only other airport Draco has
seen. In all reality, it is a wide gravel path, shadowed
by towering pines and a small stream of water from
the gulf.

He no longer feels the need to question the lack of a

Portkey office.

“You could die,” Pansy had noted a few weeks ago,

speaking to her own reflection as she applied a crisp
winged eyeliner. “No one would know. No
international Floo connection, no owls. What are you
going to do? Get a Muggle phone?”

Always the voice of reason, Ginny had given Draco a

sympathetic pat on the shoulder while scowling at her
girlfriend’s negativity. “You won’t die,” she’d said.
“Probably.”

Now, Draco proceeds toward the strip of grey

concrete buildings that line the landing strip, perfectly
square and equally spaced apart. The precision
settles the unease in Draco’s gut in the same way an
organized drawer of socks makes him preen.

Once inside the visitor’s center, Draco glances around

the grungy white room, squinting his eyes against the
harsh fluorescent lighting. A young woman leans on
the desk, picking at the end of her long, blonde braid
and flipping through a magazine. Draco turns away to
face the window and covertly removes a journal from
his bottomless shoulder bag to review his notes in an
attempt to soothe his nerves.

When Draco decided to become a Healer, he’d done

so without much thought. It was his first summer off
of probation, and he’d spent weeks lounging in
Pansy’s Parisian flat, sweaty, aimless, and miserable.
Truly, he adored Pansy and her inclination for a life of
leisure, and even to this day Draco considers Pansy
his closest friend. But the lack of direction made
Draco anxious with unspent energy. All it took was a
single Prophet headline about Draco fucking off to
France and his unrepentant revelries to push him
over the edge.

It’s not as though Draco cares what the general

public thinks of him. He knows the depth of their
loathing. But the thought of languishing about while
his greatest accomplishment remained sneaking
Death Eaters onto the grounds of a school made him
itch to prove them wrong. And all the while, Draco
could see Father’s cold and haughty sneer, an ever-
looming presence even as he wastes away behind the
walls of Azkaban. You must not stain the Malfoy name
with indecision and inadequacy, Draco.

Draco’s next move was uncharacteristically reckless,

uncomfortably unresearched. He wasn’t convinced
he’d be permitted within a hundred meters of a
hospital, as Healer or patient. Regardless, he’d
applied for school the next day.

The first few years of training were quiet. Most of the

students had stayed clear of Draco as if he secreted a
foul smell, and, if he were honest with himself, he
preferred it that way. Since he enrolled a bit later
than is traditional, his cohort had included a few
younger Hogwarts students. One of them had been a
third-year Ravenclaw he’d vividly remembered
torturing under Alecto Carrow’s judgmental glare.
Unable to tolerate the memory or her possible
reaction to Draco’s presence, he’d spent the majority
of that day emptying his stomach in the bathroom.

A day left alone is a day unhaunted, as it seems.

Draco earned good marks; that’s undeniable. But any

elation in his success had quickly deflated whenever a
patient declined his care or demanded to see his
forearm. His shoulder still twinges at the memory of a
particularly nasty Stinging Hex he’d caught from a
demented ex-Auror last semester.

About six months in, he’d Flooed Pansy, overwhelmed

after the evaporation of the delusion he’d bought
into. He had missed class for a couple of weeks
before Pansy had pushed him back through the
hearth with a newfound sense of determination. It
took some time for Draco’s skin to thicken into a
protective shell, but eventually, Draco didn’t have to
return to his dormitory to sit under the hot spray of
the shower for hours or glance over his shoulder
every time footsteps echoed behind him. He can’t
even remember the last time he Flooed Pansy in a
drunken state of panic.

From then on, every rock that was thrown at him, he

used as a stepping stone. Succeeding was a
necessity. He could ignore the rest.

Draco met his mentor, Healer Nordell, in his third

year of school. She introduced him to the new and
blossoming world of wizarding medical theory:
research-based practice, minimal patient interaction,
and endless mysteries to solve. He was hooked.

Every lesson was a puzzle, and every answer led to

another question. How does a patient’s magical core
impact the efficacy of a Blood-Replenishing Potion?
Does deep magical damage heal over time, or will it
forever impact a patient’s magical energy and affect
future treatment? How might different properties of a
wand affect the complex Healing spells he used every
day as a Junior Healer?

It was the vanishing cabinets all over again. Minus

the serpentine megalomaniac, of course.

So here Draco is, in the middle of nowhere, spending

his last semester as a Junior Healer studying
alongside an experimental American wandmaker. Just
the thought of the possibilities and their implications
makes Draco stand a little straighter as he looks out
the frosted window to watch the little plane take off
into the dark, indigo sky.

Draco is suddenly struck by the lack of daylight.

Someone—the wandmaker, he supposes—was
supposed to meet him at the airport just after his
plane arrived. He catches sight of a clock hanging
behind the desk, but stares at the time in disbelief.

“Excuse me,” he says to the woman behind the

counter. She glances up from her magazine, but
doesn’t acknowledge him further. “Do you have the
time? Your clock appears to be slow.”

A knowing smirk replaces her blank expression before

she replies in a jarring accent, “The clock is right on
time, honey.”

“But it says it’s half four.”

“Sure does.”

“I wasn’t supposed to arrive until nearly five p.m.”

“Herman said he caught a nice tailwind on the flight

west. Gets you here quicker,” she says around a
piece of chewing gum.

“All right, fine,” Draco says in exasperation. “But that

does not explain the fact that it’s pitch-black outside.”

“Honey, you’re in Alaska. In January. Sun sets about

four o’ clock this time of year.” She’s smiling, but
there’s an unsettling quality in the way it doesn’t
reach her eyes.

“Good to know,” Draco murmurs to himself as he

turns to stare out the window in disbelief. His
reflection stares back at him: dull, grey eyes,
underlined by splotchy, purple half-moons. His harsh
angles have softened a bit over the years, but the
Malfoy bone structure will never fade completely.
Neither will, it seems, his white-blond hair, which
sticks out every which way from under his hat.

As he coaxes stray tufts of hair back into place, Draco

seriously considers the state of his sanity, as well as
the likelihood of getting a flight, and then another set
of Portkeys, back home. He quickly dismisses the
thought, if only because Pansy would never let him
hear the end of it.

Out of the corner of his eye, a set of headlights grows

brighter through a shower of snow flurries as they
creep their way up the airport access road. The
vehicle stops in front of the building, casting a
blinding glare across the window. Draco looks around
and finds himself alone in the so-called airport, so he
assumes it’s his ride. He takes a deep breath and
wills his heart to steady. Unsatisfied but unwilling to
keep the wandmaker waiting, Draco fidgets with his
scarf, casts a wandless Heating Charm, and heads
back out into the frigid cold.

Draco finds it a bit silly that a world-renowned

wandmaker would choose to drive a Muggle car but
keeps his opinion to himself. The driver of the boxy
vehicle climbs out, bending down at one of the back
wheels. He’s bundled head-to-toe in boots, a scarf, a
hat, and a thick, crimson checkered coat. Draco waits
patiently behind him, not wanting to disturb whatever
it is he’s doing.

“Just checking the chains. It’ll only be a minute,” the

man says. The heat of his breath billows into the air
like smoke.

Draco’s brow creases, not having a clue what

checking the chains might mean. His face contorts
further as he realizes he will have to ride in that car.
In fact, Draco’s almost too distracted by the
impending doom that he nearly overlooks the fact
that the man’s accent is distinctly unlike that of the
woman’s inside. Oddly, it’s much more reminiscent of
his own.

“Excuse me, I’m sorry. I must be mistaken. I’m, er—”

“You’re the Healer, right?” the man asks as he slides

over to adjust the web of metal on another tire.

“Um, yes, I am. Well, I’m a Junior Healer, but yes…”

Draco internally chastises himself for stumbling over
his words like a drunken troll. “Apologies, I was told
you were American.”

The man stands and brushes his gloves on his thighs

before answering, “Sorry to disappoint. I trained
under an American, Sam Volkov, but he passed about
six months ago. Just me now. Name’s Ha—”

He turns to extend a hand, but stops mid-gesture.

Despite the multiple layers hiding his build and
features, hauntingly familiar green eyes stare at
Draco from behind foggy round glasses. Involuntarily,
Draco’s mind supplies him with images of this man on
a broom edging him out for the Snitch, a disfigured
face silently pleading for sealed lips, diluted blood on
a flooded bathroom floor. For what feels like hours,
they stand frozen, immersed in plumes of breath and
the exhaust from the running vehicle.

“No, no… No. I’m hallucinating. I’m delusional. This is

not real,” Harry Potter finally mumbles to himself.
Draco’s eyes widen as Potter turns to tap his forehead
against the car’s back windshield. “He’s not here. I’m
imagining things.”

Draco’s Heating Charm vanishes along with his focus.

The bitter cold seeps between his carefully selected
layers of wool and cotton, settling into Draco’s core.
He’s willing to consider Potter’s suggestion of
hallucinations. Or perhaps his plane crashed over the
water. His body is but an icy corpse, and this is the
beginning of his eternal punishment.

Harry Potter is standing in front of him, halfway

around the world, wearing an ungodly checkered coat
and mumbling about wheel chains. The ridiculousness
of it all almost makes Draco laugh, but his voice fails
him, an immobile lump at the base of his throat.

“Of all people,” Potter growls, turning wild eyes on

Draco. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

Draco can only stand, dumbfounded and tightly

gripping the spirals of his journal. Panic starts to stir
in his chest, drawing forth a cold sweat on his brow.
Move, he tells himself. Say something, you bumbling
idiot, he prods, but his lips only quiver from the cold.

“No. I’m not doing this.”

Without another word, Potter yanks open the car door

and climbs back inside. It isn’t until the vehicle
lurches backward that Draco realizes he may be left
at the airport to freeze to death. Survival instincts
take over, moving his feet and slamming his hands
against the car window.

“Potter, I am half the world away from anything and

anyone I have ever known! You can’t—you won’t—
just leave me here.”

Draco’s breath fogs the glass. A wolf howls in the

void. A chorus of haunting cries follows.

Potter bends over in his seat, shoulder rolling as the

window disappears into the door. He sits back up,
face painted with the same old untameable temper
and righteous fury.

“Oh yeah, Malfoy? Why the hell won’t I? Enlighten

me,” he drawls. “‘Cause I sure as hell can’t think of a
reason not to.”

The refrain of howling fades to a single wolf. The hair

prickles on the back of Draco’s neck as he tries to
appeal to the honorable Gryffindor in the best way he
knows how.

“Because you said you would take on a young,

brilliant fifth-year Healer who is the future of the
experimental medicine field. You said you would
assist him in his research. You’ve made a
commitment; you can’t back out. It would be
dishonorable, untrustworthy.” Draco takes a breath,
aware of his desperate rambling. “You’ll let me in that
car, Potter, because you said you would.”

“Awful lot of confidence for the git that’s standing

outside,” Potter snarls.

Draco leans forward to grip the window frame and

changes tactics. “Then go,” he hisses. “And be sure to
tell St. Mungo’s, and the Ministry, and everyone else
who was invested in getting me here that you won’t
do it. Tell them you’re afraid or that you’re too good
to let Draco sodding Malfoy into your home for a
couple of months. I’m sure they’ll be thrilled to hear
that your head’s shoved too far up your arse to see
past some ridiculous childhood rivalry.”

Draco knows the moment he’s piqued Potter’s

interest, the flash of recognition in those obnoxiously
green eyes. He feels his own lips pull into a wicked
grin when Potter asks, “The Ministry?”

Confidence growing, Draco drawls, “Yes, Potter, the

Ministry. The Department of Mysteries is quite
interested in the myriad applications of this research,
medical or otherwise.”

Potter sighs and smooths a gloved hand over his face,

smudging his glasses. “Fuck me.”

Potter doesn’t speak another word as he reaches

across the car to pull the opposite door handle. The
door falls open, and Potter turns to look at Draco with
a defeated expression. Draco doesn’t move, putting
forth every effort to project confidence as his nervous
system frantically debates the merits of getting in the
car versus spending the night on the icy pavement.
Impatient, Potter widens his eyes and cocks an
eyebrow, challenging Draco to turn down the
invitation. Far too proud when it comes to Potter,
Draco sighs and knows he can’t turn back now.

The snow crunches under Draco’s shoes as he rounds

the front of the vehicle, and he slips when he climbs
into the car. He can feel the embarrassed heat on his
neck and thanks Salazar for the thick scarf that
shields it. It was definitely not a given that Potter
would care that someone in the Ministry may (or may
not) have gotten Draco here. A bit curious but
satisfied he’s made it this far, he hugs his shoulder
bag to his chest and stares straight ahead.

“Do you know how to put a seatbelt on?” Potter asks,

clearly annoyed.

Another spark of confidence ignites in Draco’s belly as

he recalls his disastrous encounter with the seatbelt
on the plane earlier that afternoon. Now more
prepared, he successfully buckles the belt, finding
comfort in the satisfying click.

Potter is silent as he reverses the vehicle and begins

back down the road. Draco hopes he’s contorted his
face into an expression of calm while his stomach
flips in defiant opposition to his current situation.

Occasionally, the car pitches forward whenever Potter

wrestles with a stick that protrudes from the floor
between them. Compared to the plane, however, the
ride is quite pleasant. They proceed wordlessly down
a narrow, unlit road surrounded by trees on both
sides. Unable to bear the uncomfortable silence, a
question leaps from Draco’s lips.

“How long to get into Seldovia?”

“We’re not going to Seldovia.”

“Should I be scared? Am I being kidnapped?” In an

effort to calm his nerves, Draco settles into an old
habit of prodding at Potter.

Unfortunately, Potter chooses not to engage and

says, “I don’t live in Seldovia. It’s just the closest
place to land a plane. We’re going to Volchii.”

“All right, how long to get to Volchii?”

“You ask a lot of questions.”

“And yet I get no answers,” Draco retorts, sinking

back into his seat and covering a fake yawn with the
back of his hand.

Potter sighs impatiently. “I don’t care if you’re

nervous, you’re not being kidnapped, and it’ll take
about an hour with the roads this bad. Anything else
you’re dying to ask?”

Draco places a gloved index finger over his mouth,

feigning deep contemplation. “Yes, what are the
chains for?”

An eye roll precedes Potter’s answer. “They give the

tires better traction in the snow, so we don’t slide
down a mountain and die.”

Unsure if Potter is joking or not, Draco ignores the

grim answer to ask a final nagging question, “Why
are we driving?”

Potter glances over and loosens the scarf around his

face to reveal the days-old stubble on his cheeks. He
shrugs and turns a knob that protrudes from the
wheel, setting long, black blades to wipe back-and-
forth across the windshield. “I like to drive,” he says
simply.

An oppressive silence fills the space between their

seats as the car is swallowed further by the tunnel of
trees.

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